


kickstart my heart

by montecarlos



Category: Formula E RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Gen, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Overdosing, Rock Stars, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Unreliable Narrator, all the warnings for a rockstar au, just imagine they're here, not for the faint hearted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 18:57:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17330558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/montecarlos/pseuds/montecarlos
Summary: Jev has always lived in excess - it’s part of the parcel of being a rockstar.





	kickstart my heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is NOT a nice fic, by any means. It features numerous references to sex, drugs and rock n roll - in particularly, hard drugs since as cocaine and heroin. I don't condone drug use at all, but I have always prided myself on being a writer who addresses topics that are a bit out there. I've really based the experiences of Jev on heroin off what I expect it might be like. I did undertake some research in regards to what the drug makes you feel and what to do in the event of an overdose. It's a departure from my usual writing style, a sort of stream of conscious, drug-addled mishmash is the best description I can give. 
> 
> Title and concept taken from Motley Crue's Kickstart My Heart, which is said to have been written in response to Nikki Sixx's heroin overdose. Also listened to Guns N' Roses Appetite for Destruction on repeat for this too.
> 
> Thank you to Boz, who basically brought this fic to life and basically told me that the adrenaline to the heart thing wasn't feasible.

_ kick start my heart _ __   
_ give it a start, oh, yeah, baby  _ __   
_ oh, yeah, kick start my heart  _ _   
_ __ hope it never stops

* * *

 

_  
_Jev has always lived in excess - it’s part of the parcel of being a rockstar. He has to keep up the facade that he’s built for himself. Everyone knows him as Jev, lead singer and primary songwriter of Techeetah, the man who has a different woman in his bed every night, the man who snorted cocaine off every surface from James’s bass to everyone’s favourite place - the toilet lid of the local club a few minutes before he was due on stage.  
  
It’s not like he can stop - it’s part of his personality these days. Techeetah are no longer playing to the crappy clubs around London, but to arenas and actual venues where they’re paid and where there’s enough room for Andrea’s drum-kit. The tabloids lap it up. There’s so many photos of Jev fucked off his face, tumbling out of a taxi with some random leggy blonde amongst the photos of the Royal Family and the latest Love Island reject selling some sob story. The band aren’t always happy about Jev being at the forefront of attention instead of their music and their publicist despairs - but apparently it sells records. It’s all an act for the public. There’s always been one person who can see through the facade - James and Andrea can see some of Jev’s constant bullshit, but André has known Jev since they were playing in the crappiest part of London, when they were fresh-faced teenagers.   
  
The thing between them was inevitable. Jev isn’t really sure what to call it - they shag occasionally, when Jev isn’t bedding some woman, when he just needs someone to hold him and tell him he’s worth something, someone who sees past the eyeliner and the tattoos to who Jean-Eric Vergne is. It started when they were eighteen. Sloppy teenage kisses in between cigarettes, his head pillowed on a strong chest, André sometimes gently singing a throwaway lyric that ends up scribbled on the back of a sandwich bag.   
  
It was never supposed to be a stable thing though. Jev has always worn his bisexuality like a badge of honour, constantly glaring at journalists who dare to pigeonhole him. André on the other hand was always much more secretive about matters. He still shags Jev in between the blonde girls that end up inevitably sharing his bed every other night, keeping quiet about the fact he was the one who left the sizable lovebite on the lead singer’s neck a few nights prior to the photographs. But as the band grew bigger, Jev started to change. He had to, to a certain extent, to please the record producers and the publicists but the fun-loving, creative teenager that André remembers disappears behind the excess.  
  
Jev doesn’t even remember when it all began - he remembers smoking cigarettes with André in the band’s infancy, whilst Andrea loaded up their crappy van with his beloved drums. But as they grew bigger, the pull of excess became greater and greater. At first, it was alcohol - _just a pint of beer after every show - two pints of beer - a vodka screwdriver - four shots of whiskey_ \- it all dulled Jev’s senses enough that he could focus on the music, on the words that danced on the page in front of him.  They all smoked marijuana to calm themselves down and unwind after a show. They’d stand outside in the cold after gigs, passing a blunt around and giggling under their breath. However, Jev always took it one step further. He always has. LSD to improve his creativity. Sleeping pills to dull the buzz after the show. The banknote pressed into his fingers, the white line of cocaine lined up perfectly on the cistern, like all those movies he’s seen over the years. Jev remembers the first hit, the rush, the euphoria that settled over him as the drug began to take effect. He doesn’t tell André, he doesn’t tell anyone.  
  
Heroin was a mistake though. A big mistake.   
  
Smack. Skag. Mr Brownstone. Brown sugar. No matter what it’s referred to, no matter who takes it, it has the same effect.   
  
“This gives a better high than cocaine. Much longer, much stronger.” It’s hard to say no, especially to a nice blonde with big tits.   
  
He’s sure that their manager will kill him, and James in particular, will be disappointed. James was always the sensible one, which always tickled the band because he’s the bass player, it’s in their genetics to be the sensible ones. Jev on the other hand, is the frontman. It’s his job to fuck things up. And he supposes he’s doing a good job of it - holed up in god knows where with some girl he barely knows, watching her cook up heroin.  
  
He watches the brown liquid bubbling on the spoon. He can’t remember her name, he barely remembers his own at the minute.  
  
“You’ll want more after this first hit,” She smiles, red lipstick smeared all over her teeth.   
  
He’s heard so many stories about heroin, how it’s the ultimate high - but it’s a cruel mistress. He knows that he will want more. It’s always been the weakest part of his character, his inability to say no, to always try find new ways to entertain himself. At first, it was relatively harmless things - the tattoos painting down his arms and neck, shaving his head when he got bored and wanted a change, before alcohol and destructive behaviour followed. He has to uphold his reputation he keeps telling the band after he stumbles into the recording studio three hours late with three songs he’s scribbled down whilst on a particularly bad acid trip.   
  
He will never forget the feeling as the heroin entered his system, slumping against the nameless girl, euphoria surging through him in waves. He blinks once, twice, as he becomes boneless and numb. She’s absolutely right - there’s nothing like this. It’s almost like a rush - like a cascade of sensation all at once, happiness and contentment all flooding his system, warmth, brightness-   
  
The girl was right. Heroin isn’t just a one time thing, it’s to be a full time occupation for Jev. It’s easy enough to find someone to supply him with the gear - he’s got the money and the contacts, people clambering to impress the frontman of one of the world’s biggest rock bands. He learns to cook it up himself, in the bathroom at the recording studio, at home in his swanky apartment, in the back of the limousine he travels around in.   
  
More, more, more, just a little more running through his veins -   
  
It’s easy to keep his habit hidden - the band are used to seeing him strung out on something - whether it be enough alcohol to probably put a normal person in a coma or the cocaine habit that they are aware of (they don’t condone it at all and there’s been instances of James and André calling a band meeting after flushing his coke down the toilet - his _full_ bag of coke that had cost him a pretty penny.)  The track marks are easy enough to hide, hidden beneath the colourful ink swirls of his tattoos that curl up his arms.   
  
However, other symptoms are harder to hide. He’s lost quite a bit of weight recently - substituting meals for heroin is never a good idea and Jev’s never been a person who makes the right decisions - he was skinny enough, but now he knows he’s positively skeletal. He ignores the worried glances from André and James. Fuck, even Andrea has noticed, a man who doesn’t notice anything that doesn’t have an X chromosome and shags everything in sight.   
  
“I’m worried about you,” André murmurs as they curl up in the bed together, all sweaty and mussed hair. It’s been a while since they last fucked. They’ve been so busy in the studio trying to lay down new material.   
  
“Why are you worried?” Jev asks, tracing a fingertip down André’s chest. “I’m getting into my mindset to write,”  
  
“You’ve lost a lot of weight recently. Are you sure there’s not something you want to tell me?” André’s voice is soft and calm.   
  
Jev hates it. He worries his lip, his hand stilling on André’s warm skin. “I’m fine,” He’s not sure if he’s trying to convince André as much as himself. “I’m just tired. Want to finish this album and get out on tour,”  
  
“Are you sure it’s nothing else?” André murmurs.   
  
Jev tries not to think about the kit hidden in the cupboard, about the bag of heroin packed against the socks in his bedside table. He’s not had a hit for a few hours and the buzz is already starting to wear off. His skin itches despite the warmth of André’s fingers stroking over his sweaty skin. He knows what he wants.   
  
“I’m fine,” He says, the fake smile lighting up his face.   
  
André follows with his smile of his own. This one is genuine and real, but it does nothing to dull the ache of Jev’s bones.  
  
He’s tried to quit. He’s been trying since the beginning to find something to destroy the numb ache that settles over his entire body after the drug wears off. He’s tried everything he can think of - marijuana, amphetamines, codeine, anything he can get his hands on. It doesn’t work, he keeps falling back into the arms of heroin. Heroin is warm, safe to him. It’s an escape from the constant attention on his life, on the tabloids all printing photos of him looking all gaunt, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass.   
  
The headlines never upset him, neither did their words - junkie, waster, washed up rock star, trying to emulate the classic sex, drugs and rock n’ roll lifestyle instead of focusing on his music. According to the reports, he’s gone to rehab. He’s been technically dead for seven minutes and was revived by some random girl in another. One reports that he’s lost several of his teeth and a leg to drug use. He ignores it all and tries to get on with the record. The tourniquet barely hurts anymore as he pulls it tight against his skin, the needle puts up no resistance and he feels himself falling into a daze as the heroin enters his bloodstream.   
  
He ends up writing three songs in his cramped messy handwriting before he passes out, the needle still wedged in his arm.   
  
Despite marching into the studio the next morning with the pages of lyrics and scribbled melodies, the band survey him with an expression that he can’t place.   
  
“We need to talk, Jean,” James says. It’s the I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed parent tone that Jev recognises from their younger days when he and Andrea ended up trashing hotel rooms together. “We’ve read the reports,”  
  
“And you believe that crap?” Jev snarls.   
  
“You’re different,” Andrea cuts in. He was always the straight talking one. “You’ve lost a lot of weight. You never write songs with us as a band. You spend all your time out partying. You seem to have lost interest in the band, in _us_ ,”   
  
“I spent half the night writing three new songs for this album!” Jev snaps, glancing over at André who is strangely quiet for once, his fingernails bitten down to nothing.   
  
“Did you write them for us or did you write them for yourself?” James asks quietly.   
  
Silence descends over the room.   
  
“We just want to know if there’s any truth to the rumours, Jean. You owe us that much,” James’s calm voice breaks through the silence.   
  
“Fuck you,” Jev snarls out, feeling like a caged animal. “Fuck you for even thinking that. You’re supposed to have my back,”  
  
“We do have your back, Jean,” James says, exasperatedly. “We just want to know if you’re in trouble-”  
  
“I can’t believe this-”  
  
“Are you on heroin or not, Jean? Simple enough question,” Andrea asks, folding his arms, his eyes fixed on their frontman.   
  
“Fuck you,” Jev snaps once more, pushing himself out of his chair.   
  
He ends up having a cigarette outside the offices. The nicotine burns through his veins, incomparable to what he truly wants. But it’s something. His lips brushing against the filter, the smoke filling his lungs all take away the itch for a moment. It’s cold outside but he barely feels it anymore. The itching seems to intensify, creeping underneath his skin.   
  
“Jean,” André’s voice cuts through the quiet. Jev’s amber eyes snap up to take in the sight of the guitarist, draped in that god awful coat with the faux fur collar. His arms are folded and his expression is blank.   
  
“So now you choose to speak? You had so much to say back there when Andrea was practically calling me a junkie,”  
  
“You chose not to answer the question,” André doesn’t rise to Jev’s anger. He never has. It’s something that Jev has always found incredible frustrating. André has always tolerated his anger with stone cold calmness. “It was a simple enough question,”  
  
“I’m tired of you all acting like you don’t trust me,”  
  
“Because last time you said you were fine, we found you off your face on cocaine, Jean. We know something’s not right with you,”  
  
“I’m not on cocaine,” He’s telling the truth this time. He’s not on cocaine. He knows the dangers of mixing a stimulant and a depressant drug. He’s not _that_ stupid. “I wouldn’t jeopardise our careers like that,”  
  
“Then tell me what’s wrong,” André moves closer to him, breath falling against his cheek. “Talk to me like we used to,”  
  
“I-” Jev murmurs, his eyes falling on André’s lips. He wants nothing more than to confess his secret to the older man. He thinks of their teenage years together - they shared everything from clothes, to kisses, to beds - but everything was different now. André wasn’t the most important thing in his life anymore and his heart aches at the realisation. “We aren’t the same people anymore,” He says as he tosses the cigarette butt aside. He’s not always into metaphors, but he can’t help but think that the remains of the cigarette crushed by his boot represents André’s heart.   
  
It’s easy enough to stumble into a bar on the way back to his apartment - drink himself to the point where he can barely remember who he is anymore and the expression on André’s face as he walked away. But it can’t contain the itch. It starts on the surface of his skin and begins crawling itself underneath, sinking around his ribs, squeezing at his heart. He knows that he’s sweating. He can feel the salt against his shirt, his lithe body twitching from withdrawal. He manages to stagger home, the itching intensifying with every step. Shaking fingers wrap around the blackened spoon. It’s easy enough to prepare a dose of his medicine. The same shaking fingers fumble with the lighter, pressing the end of the matchstick into the heroin-citric acid mixture to blend it together. Jev can feel his mouth dry with anticipation as he slips on the tourniquet, shaking fingers slapping at his tattooed skin to raise a vein.   
  
Relief soon follows after that. He can forget André’s disappointed face, the disgust in James and Andrea’s faces, the faces of his fans if he admits that the rumours are true. He’s not an addict. He’s not like those other people hooked on heroin who do nothing but wait for their next fix. He knows that. But the euphoria soon kicks in. Jev finds himself being dragged away by the waiting arms of Morpheus as he slumps to the floor, needle still in his arm-   
  
He awakens what feels like days later but everything’s through a haze - but he can make out worried brown eyes and warm firm hands shaking his body.   
  
“Oh god Jean, what have you done?”   
  
__André.   
  
He feels the pull of the drug once again - it would be easy to go to sleep and not wake up, not face up to the disappointment -   
  
“Wake up!” There’s a light slap to his face. “Jean, wake the fuck up!”  
  
He’s never heard André sound so frightened before. It’s a strange sensation. He doesn’t understand why André won’t let him sleep, it’s so hard to stay awake-   
  
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Andrea, call an ambulance,” André’s voice grows desperate.   
  
He can barely hear Andrea fumbling with the phone. “Come quickly - overdosed on heroin,” Everything else fades out as he feels the whine bubble up when the needle is plucked from his skin.  
  
André’s hands feel colder against his sweaty skin. But it’s nice, it’s comforting. It reminds Jev of the times when they were younger, when André would just stroke his hair back with a wide smile. He remembers the sunlight drifting through the window as they lay in the bed together, André peppering his skin with tiny soft kisses. He closes his eyes as he falls back into the sheets, André still smiling at him -   
  
“Jean, please-”  
  
When did he ever listen to André? Well, he used to, back in the day when he was so nervous to sing in front of ten people at the local club and André used to squeeze his hand just before the lights hit them. Jev doesn’t remember burying the memories of André’s soft smile, his hand at the small of his back, his guitar strapped to his body like an extra limb. “You’re going to be brilliant,” André had said, and Jev had believed every word.   
  
Jev feels cool water against his skin, André’s body slumped against his own supporting his weight. He guesses that André has dragged him into the shower from the sound of the running water, the whimpers breaking from André’s lips as he douses Jev’s skin over and over again-   
  
Jev just wants it to stop. He wants to stop André making those noises, the fogginess to lift. But it’s too much. He feels numb, the pinches, the screams are all diluted down by the heroin.  
  
“Jean, please, the ambulance is coming, I promise-”   
  
He wishes that he could lift his hand, stroke André’s face and tell him that it’s going to be okay. But he can’t find the strength to even open his eyes, let alone move his hand at all. He can feel the water against his skin, it’s cool, a contrast to André’s warm touches over his body-   
  
He can hear the sirens. He smiles against André’s touch.   
  
“Jean!” He hears the scream before the fogginess takes over again.   



End file.
